


Perennial

by sakurasencha



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Missing Scene, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-03-22 01:30:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13753395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakurasencha/pseuds/sakurasencha
Summary: Love can be made in a moment. A bond is forged by years.B/V twenty year fic. Series of chronological oneshots. AUish.





	1. AGE 762

**Author's Note:**

> This is meant to cover snapshots in B/V's relationship, but like I said in the summary, while the story will pretty closely follow the DB plot, there will be some things happening in the fic which didn't happen in canon, especially in the early years when B/V didn't interact as much.
> 
> Basically, I'm adapting the narrative through a B/V lens.
> 
> Ideally I will finish this with 20 chapters, one chapter for each year, but unfortunately my fanfic writing isn't very dependable and I can't make any promises as to the speed of updates.
> 
> Written for C/P's shipping week, Day 1, prompt: Fly

The lab is the kind of almost-quiet where Bulma's genius thrives. No music. No voices. No real voices. Only the background babbling of an unseen television, the ubiquitous murmurs of machinery piled over every square inch of the industrial grade flooring. These sounds are occasionally punctuated by the heavy clunk of metal on metal as she pounds and bangs and screws with whatever fine piece has caught her interest (and best not to dwell on whether that's a metaphor for her life, she thinks with a laugh).

It's how she works best, somewhere in that detente between peace and progress. So when a wall monitor suddenly blinks to life and a screech of an alarm goes off, Bulma lifts her head and frowns, more annoyed than frightened, before realization dawns and the hairs on her neck begin to rise.

A sensor's been triggered. Bulma's eyes widen as they trace the bright red _blip-blip_ flying across the screen.

Her wrench clatters to the floor with a single thought:

 _Not yet_.

They're not supposed to be on Chikyuu. They're not supposed to land on Chikyuu until next month. Her friends are not supposed to face the monsters from the stars for another month, another thirty days of training and preparing and not dying.

 _Blip-blip_.

And they're not supposed to be coming for her.

But her sensors don't lie. That blazing red trail imposed over a map of West City is headed straight for Capsule Corp. Every single one of Bulma's plans and "supposed tos" and expectations for a long and happy life dry up like so many droplets on a radiator, vaporized into nothing but mist and air, and all because of the Dragon Radar sitting pretty in the second right hand drawer of her desk, the one she planned on safeguarding in another location just next week because – _one more month_.

Bulma sucks in a long breath. No more months. No more days. No time, no time, she needs to be ready _now_.

Run to the desk. Lock the drawer with the Dragon Radar. Initiate defense shields. Punch in codes to activate and arm the anti-aircraft missiles that sleep like deadly beasts beneath the domed rooftops of Capsule Corp.

The lab roars to life. "Defensive perimeter activated," calls a female voice calibrated to soothe, but which does nothing to ease her galloping pulse.

Alarms continue to wail into every corner of the compound. The room vibrates as great gears grind from above and a field of missile launchers deploy. Her staggering breaths are lost in the clamor. What else? What else? Gun. Ammo. This isn't the weapon's lab, where she could pluck a top of the line rifle encased in row after row of Hoi Poi Capsules. This is her personal lab, where she prefers the illusion of innovation over commerce.

But there might be something here. A relic left over from her adventuring days, tossed in a junk drawer somewhere. She moves from cabinet to cabinet and doesn't think about her mother and father, the damn cat, Cheryl from reception who orders her lunch everyday, those who are dead and those who are still alive enough to be running scared. Finally she fishes out a decade old semi-auto. It's heavy in her hands, all the weight of memory and nostalgia. Once upon a time she was naive enough to think these flimsy human weapons stood a chance against a Saiyan.

She slams a loaded magazine into the grip. She's no longer naive, just desperate.

Bulma flicks her head to the wall. Screams outside. The guttural booming of rapid fire explosions. The high-pitch blasts that's she's learned to associated with organic-based fire power. Defense protocol has shuttered the windows with meters-thick steel, the kind of stuff that should repel armies. Her visibility is at zero, and it helps her nerves that she can't see the horror bearing down on them. But she's not immune to the deep tremors rippling through the room, the dust and debris shaken from the ceiling, snowing down on her bare shoulders and hair.

She aims her gun. Her hands are quaking. She won't be able to hit anything, let alone a moving target, but damn if she won't try.

The cacophony grows closer, louder, closer.

 _Don't close your eyes_.

Then silence. The kind of absolute silence that's worse than any noise.

Bulma lowers the gun. Her face is wet. When did she start crying?

"Is it over?"

The wall explodes at her in a rush of heat and air and shrapnel. Bulma covers her face as her body blows backwards and she collides with the floor.

"Bulma Briefs?"

Smoke in her eyes, smoke down her throat. Her ears are ringing. Everything hurts, inside and out. She hacks into her arm and tries to sit up. She squints at the vehicle-sized hole which now exists in her impenetrable steel wall, and through the blur of tears and dissipating smoke, she sees him.

"Bulma Briefs, yes?"

His accent is strange. Alien. Nothing like Goku in these odd inflections and cruel tone. But he was all Goku in looks: the same olive skin and striking black hair, angular, almost feral features. Human-but-not. "I've heard rumors you're not a complete waste of brain matter, so I'll be brief. I think you know what it is I want." He holds out a white-gloved hand. "Hand it over."

He hovers in the air, halfway between the ceiling and the floor, moving towards her, staring down at her. The ash and pain – _never been in such pain_ – has reduced her voice to a gravelly whisper. "Sorry, pal. Rumors or not, I never kiss on a first date." Most sensible people default to flight or fight, but leave it to Bulma's instinct to choose "flirt" as the best survival option.

But the stranger doesn't seem to understand the implication of her statement. His smile slackens to puzzlement, then to an unmistakable sneer that Bulma thinks might be the last thing she ever sees in this realm.

"The Dragon Radar. _Now_."

Bulma coughs. Something wet dribbles down her eyebrow, down her cheek. She swipes it idly, a smear of red on her hand, then bunches her shirt and wipes the tears and snot away.

She hobbles to a stand. Her legs sway like river reeds, but she's proud of the way her dainty little chin juts out, her hair singed and looking a fright. "I don't have it."

He crosses his arms over his chest, then smiles like he's already killed her. But instead of killing her, he slowly lowers himself to the ground. His boots kiss the floor and he walks towards her in long, soundless steps.

"It seems I was misinformed. Since you obviously share in this planet's penchant for stupidity, I'm going to explain to you, very simply, how this is going to work." Every word, every movement of his is over-exaggerated, as if he were living in a stage play. The only thing real about him is his eyes, dark and cold, a burnt out star. "You have something that I want, and I will kill you if I don't get it. Understand?"

And yet within the black ice of his iris sparks a fleeting glimmer, a rare fire she knows she shouldn't play with.

"Kill me, and you'll never get that precious radar." She blows him a kiss. "Good luck searching the planet."

He chuckles. "So, you're one of those?" He waves a careless hand through the air, gestures to the smoke and despair he's wrought. "Not my first decimation, you know. Not even my best – you should see all cretins I left running around with all their limbs intact. I have a lot of experience in this field, and I know, that you know, that _I know_ how to make you give me what I want." His smile returns. "Don't your father and mother live here?"

"I told you, I don't have it! Do you really think we'd be stupid enough to leave it here, right where you'd expect it, and only me guarding it?" She waves her arms in the air. "Me, a puny human? I mean, look at me!"

He shrugs. "I never put humans down as a smart species."

She rests her hands on her hips, arms akimbo. "And yet here you are, asking a dumb human for tech you don't have."

He cocks his head. "Funny."

In a blink his hands are around her throat. "Do you think I'm playing a game? Do you think I've come here to trade insults with you, a weak and useless bag of meat?" He throws his head back and laughs for what seems forever. Bulma scratches and kicks, but nothing stops the air and breath and life slowly spiraling out of her by his vibrating energy, that bubbling, contained strength, like a pot about to boil over. "I've eaten stronger beings than you for dinner," he says, "and the only reason I'm not snapping your pathetic head right off your neck is because I need information." There is nothing elusive in his eyes anymore. There is nothing at all except every kind of madness. "If you don't have the Dragon Radar, then tell me where it is!"

Her vision spots. She squeezes out one word: "Goku."

"Kakkarot is dead."

"Coming….back."

He smiles. "Then let's give him a reason to hurry up."

No more days. No more minutes. No more seconds.

Bulma closes her eyes, because even though she may be dying, she won't let this sick bastard's smile be the last thing she ever sees.

But the blow never comes. Neither does permanent darkness. Instead the pressure around her throat loosens. Her body slumps back to the floor. She peeps one eye out and sees a figure fly out through the hole in the wall, diminishing, evaporating back into the wind.

* * *

Goku wins. The Saiyans are defeated. The fight is over.

Bulma slams her fist into Roshi's table. "This isn't over!"

The whole room gawks at her. "What do you mean?" Oolong asks from the safety of the couch.

That doesn't stop her from pouncing on him, shaking him back and forth as she yells. "Can't you idiots see? He's won! He's killed everyone, robbed us of our Dragon Balls – the only way to bring everyone back to life, in case you hadn't noticed." She drops Ooloing to the floor and pulls at her hair. "The only way to bring back Yamcha. That bastard's won, and I can't leave it like that! I can't let him win!"

She touches her neck. The muscles are swollen and tender, the skin a sick purple. She can't breathe without feeling like she's inside a noose. But her resolve isn't about revenge. The tears that prick her eyes are not born from hate. It's worse than hate.

It's fear.

And Bulma refuses to be afraid of anyone.

"I'm not going to let him win."

On the television screen, they watch his space pod jettison into the sky, higher and higher, up to the stars and beyond.

"There's Dragon Balls on Namek," she whispers. "There has to be." She turns to the others. "We have go to Namek. That's the only way to make things right."

"How?"

"How else." Bulma smiles and lifts up her arms. "We'll fly!"


	2. AGE 763 - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know the Namek stuff technically takes place late 762, but for the purpose of this fic I decided to just push it to Age 763. This year will be split up into two parts, because there's so much in canon potential for interaction. Most of the chapters I envision just having one chapter per year.
> 
> Also, I wanted to say that I'm attempting a bit more of a realistic portrayal of them, so characterization will be a bit tweaked from the anime version.

Namek's a beautiful planet. Must be all the green. Limpid seas, shimmering fields of grass, soft as velvet. A whole planet soaked in the same emerald shade as her hair and teeming with untainted life.

But then her space ship landed. And then Vegeta's. And Frieza's. And now all that lovely life and green is irreparably scarred by deep furrows and gouges, the way cracked porcelain can never truly be made to look brand new, and beautiful isn't the word she should use for Namek anymore.

"Broken." Bulma curses at her cuticles, tears in her eyes. "There goes the last of my nails."

She kneels by a small pool and peers at the dim reflection offered by the water. So much for the bombshell that graced the cover of Vogue Magazine last year, tagline: _Sexy and Smart: Why not have it all?_ The disheveled mess staring back at her is nothing but a mob of tangles, layers of grime and dirt, a beauty as brutalized as the planet she's standing on.

"This is insane," she mutters. "What am I even doing here?"

"What's that, Bulma?" Krillin looks smaller than she's ever known him as he sits beside a distraught Gohan. Always one to wear his height with a hint of defiance, now it's as if he's folding in on himself, hoping to shrink into nothing.

Her eyes brim again. What are any of them _doing_ here?

All they wanted were their friends back. None of them bargained on meeting with galactic war mongers or professional death squads zipping through the clouds. Every second, every intake of air is strained by what's looming, what fresh horror could soon be coming her way – heads severed clean from their bodies, the stench of burnt flesh, puddles that used to be people.

They're out of their depth, and Kami help them if two of the strongest warriors on earth are collapsing under the pressure and she's the only one left standing.

Everyone has their roles in their little gang, and Bulma's no different. She's the brains, of course, but as one of the only non-combatants she's more than that. She's the moral support. So she dries her eyes, pushes aside the paralytic dread, puts on her patented bitch face and stands as tall as she can make herself, arms akimbo.

"I said – why are we sitting here? Why aren't we _doing_ something?"

Krillin shoots her the look – the "you-just don't-get-it-Bulma" look – the one the fighters often flash their token civilian whenever they think she's being willfully obtuse during a fight. _Do you know what his power leaves is, Bulma? Have you seen his new form, Bulma?_ It never ceases to annoy her, but nevertheless, her words get a rise out of Krillin, get his blood pumping as he stands and waves his arms.

"Are you kidding?" he squeaks, eyes wide. "Frieza's out there, remember? Best to just sit tight and wait for Vegeta. Then we'll find the Grand Namek and make our wishes."

"And what about after that? Maybe we get our friends back, but we can't wish for Frieza to die!"

He shrugs. "Vegeta's convinced that he can defeat Frieza if he gets immortality."

"That's like saying we don't have to worry about the shark once it eats the piranhas!"

"I get it, I get it." He rubs a hand over his bare head and offers her a sheepish laugh. "But let's just deal with one psychopath at a time, okay Bulma?"

It's good to hear him laugh again. And even Gohan has dragged himself out of his well of tears to gawk at a famous Bulma tantrum on display. Best not to disappoint, so she kicks a stone and sends it flying, then crosses her arms, hip out, lips pouted. "I don't get why we're even giving him a wish. We have to be pretty desperate if our only plan is granting that asshole immortality!"

A pair of white boots touch down with an inaudible puff of dust. "Better desperate than dead."

Bulma closes her eyes. Vegeta's voice is unlike any other she knows. Both tame and feral, cultured yet somehow primitive at the same time. He enunciates as precisely as a surgeon's scalpel, but all the inflections are wrong, as if he'd learned his perfect speech from an uptight computer program.

Krillin runs to his side, eager. "Well? Is Goku okay?"

"That disgrace of a Saiyan is in the healing tank. It will take a few hours to get him back to full capacity, but he'll live."

She will never get used to that voice. Never hear it without feeling his fingers around her throat. There's no need to fake theatrics now, not the way he gets her heart pounding and the adrenaline gushing.

"Here's what I don't understand," she clips. "Once we get the Dragon Balls, if we really need a ringer to take out Frieza, why not just wish immortality on Goku?"

"It's not what dad would want," Gohan says. "You know that, Bulma."

"He'd do it if it was the only way."

"But it's not the only way, is it?" Vegeta says. Since they've been on Namek, he's treated her no differently than he would a buzzing insect, and he looks as though he'd love nothing more than to swat her away. "How many years have you had access to the Dragon Balls? If any of you wanted immortality, you could have wished for it long ago. It's my turn."

"They're Namek's Dragon Balls found with _my_ radar. None of us owe you a damn thing!"

"Really?" He strides towards her. The clear annoyance in his voice ratchets closer to anger with every step. "How long do you think you would have survived if I wasn't here? Should I recount the number of heads I ripped off to keep your pathetic group alive, or do I need to drop them at your feet as an offering?"

"He's right, Bulma," Krillin says. Ever the mediator, he runs in between them, keeps them from squaring off nose-to-nose. "Let's just everyone calm down, yeah?" He shoots her a pleading look. "Come on, Bulma, Vegeta helped us stay alive this long. We've made a deal, and fair is fair."

"You're really going to use the word "fair" with a man who murdered our friends?" The tears are back. They prick and sting her eyes, but she doesn't let them fall. "Who killed _Yamcha_?"

Krillin has the decency to keep his mouth closed, but not enough to apologize. Vegeta casts her one final, disgusted glare and wanders off, ostensibly to scan the horizon.

Bulma sets off towards him.

"Let it go, Bulma," Krillin warns.

She shakes off his restraining hand. "Not until I see him pay."

* * *

 

The horizon is empty. Calm. Nothing moves, nothing breathes. Not so much as a fluttering leaf as far as his eyes can see.

But peace is such fragile illusion. He should know. He's brought down instant destruction to countless places just like Namek. One minute the world is frozen in tranquility, the next a planet-wide wrecking ball comes ripping through its core.

How quickly the tides can turn. How quickly Frieza, only twenty-five clicks to the south, can swoop in and end them all. Even before Vegeta mastered these new ki-sensing abilities, the icejin bastard was an omniscient torment in his life. He could be two galaxies over, two hundred planets away, and still feel the terror of Frieza's presence, scouter or no.

The sound of stomping feet approaches from behind him – the vapid female, no doubt. She is a tiresome creature, but in some strange way refreshing. Like a drink of water while drowning in the sea. She yells, he yells, she yells back. A low-risk battle in a high-risk war for survival, and so far he's refrained from demolishing her simply because she's provided such a nice distraction from the impending reptilian doom.

True to form, she comes out swinging. "You're a selfish prick, you know that?" she screams to his back.

He smiles. "Your verbal insults might work on the spineless trash inhabiting your planet. But they mean nothing to me." He expects another barrage of insults, but the air settles into deathly silence, and he turns around to look at her.

Her usual look of rage is gone, replaced by a steady, piercing gaze, as if she is reverse engineering him from the inside out.

"You're afraid of him, aren't you?" she says quietly.

Vegeta frowns. "I fear no one."

"Please!" She smiles sweetly. "Look at you – it's all over your face. You're _terrified_  of Frieza." When he doesn't reply, her smile broadens. "What? No smart comeback? No string of profanity? Not even a threat to destroy me?" She giggles into her hand. "Some Prince of all Saiyans you turned out to be. If you had any pride at all, you'd kill Frieza now. You wouldn't need to go begging for immortality."

It's not her impertinence so much as her moral superiority that heats his blood and makes his fingers twitch with energy. Does she really think herself and her weakling enterouage so brave? When he spent how many years throwing himself into battle after battle without any guarantees, spent months on end languishing in the healing tanks. And all the while they had an unbreakable safety net, used the Dragon Balls to make immortals of them all.

Yet she has the audacity to question his strength? His _pride_?

"Tell me," he growls, and is gratified to see her flinch backwards, "how many times have you used the Dragon Balls to wish one of your useless friends back from the dead?"

"That's different." She flips back her hair in one prim, unruffled stroke. "They deserved to get wished back. They're _good_."

"Right. And I suppose I don't _deserve_ immortality because I'm just oh-so-evil."

Her cool composure melts away into snorts and scoffs and general disgust. "Are you saying you aren't? Look around you! Massacred villages, untold numbers of murdered innocents, and you want to tell me you're _not_ evil?"

"I'm not evil." He takes one, purposeful step towards her. Then another. And another. For all her bravado, Bulma's eyes dilate as he stalks ever closer, eating up the distance between them until he's close enough to strangle her one more time (if he cared to), leans in to her personal space until he's close enough to kiss her (which he knows he never will). "There's no such thing as evil," he says. He can see the vein in her neck throb with her breakneck heartbeat, her staggered breath loud and a gentle heat on his face. "There's no such thing as good."

"I don't believe that," she whispers.

"They're just made up words to make people like you and the bald one and that idiot in the tank feel like they're somehow better than everyone else."

"Not better than everyone." Her exaggerated mannerisms have vanished. All that remains of her is a hard steel wall of crossed arms and hateful eyes. Her true self, behind all the fluff and flair. "Just better than _you_."

"Do you really think this universe cares about good?" He throws back his head and laughs, because there's nothing funnier than noble fools about to die. "You're first trip into space, and you think you've got everything figured out? I've lived my entire life in the vacuum. I've destroyed more civilizations than you've ever dreamed existed, and out there, there's only one rule that matters: the strong are masters of the weak." 

Enough is enough. The back and forth is pointless. He's proved his point, shown her highness that right and wrong are no match for terror and tyranny, and moves away.

The woman visibly sags in relief. "You might have Krillin and Gohan fooled. They might trust you, but I don't. I know the minute you're immortal and Frieza's out of the picture, you're gunning for Goku – and all of earth."

"I couldn't care less about earth. You can keep your waste of a planet."

One eyebrow lifts. "And Goku?"

"Once I'm immortal that idiot will mean nothing." Especially after he's dead.

"And when this is all over – what? You're just going to take off into space? Become the next highest ranking intergalactic crime lord or something?" She taps her foot as the silence stretches, waiting for his answer. "Well?"

But what answer could he give? Truth is, he's never considered a future beyond Frieza. At least, not a _real_ future. A future he can hold and taste and believe in. A future he can plan for. How could he? When every second of his life has been geared to the one battle, the one defining stroke to end it all, whether in Frieza's death or his own. He's never had the privilege to ask himself what a future might look like without Frieza.

What he might look like without Frieza.

He flicks his eyes from her face to the ground, to the horizon, then back to her face, framed in turquoise hair that is burnished and bright in the rising sun – green, the undisputed color of life. "I'm going to kill Frieza," he says, and wishes he could believe it. "With or without your help."

Krillin yells to them that Dende is approaching. Vegeta starts off back towards the others just as Bulma calls out to him:

"How old were you?"

He stops. "What?"

Everything's drained out of her – all the rage and coyness and fear. All that's left on her face is a soft kind of defeat. "How old were you when Frieza took you?"

Vegeta swallows. He says nothing and strides forward again, towards Krillin and Gohan.

But as he passes her he nods to Gohan and says low enough only she will hear, "Younger than the boy."

He doesn't look back at her. Doesn't want to know what new emotion might be ravaging her face.

After all, she's a nice distraction, and he's killed for far less than that damn look of pity in someone's eyes.


	3. AGE 763 - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! I know this update was long in coming. My fanfic writing is not very consistent, but hopefully I'll be able to update this fic more regularly.
> 
> Anyway, just a reminder that this fic is AU(ish), so the events in the fic will not 100% coincide with canon (although the plot will follow the same pattern as the canon plot. Basically, I'm tweaking things to give more B/V interactions).

There's foolish. There's stupid.

And then there's Bulma Briefs.

"Wait here, Bulma." That was Krillin's command. "Wait here, Bulma." That's what Krillin told her to do.

So shouldn't Krillin be the one to blame for all this? For the singed hair, the paralyzing fear? For being one misstep away from incineration? After all, he knows her well. Thirteen-years-well. He should know how much she hates following orders, and those three words –  _Wait here, Bulma_  – tossed like crumpled garbage over his shoulder as he zoomed away, were just begging to be defied, practically an invitation to throw herself from the pan and straight into the fire.

She always did love a little heat.

But not like this. Not a thousand degrees searing past her face as she crouches behind an outcropping of rock, arms hugging her head, teeth clenched hard enough to crack, the world shaking beneath her feet and the sky falling to pieces.

"Did you really think you could defeat me, Vegeta?"

Frieza is grotesque and vile and everything a scourge of the galaxy should be. But it's not the claws for hands, or the cruel smiles, or even the long reptilian tail, coiled around Vegeta's throat as the Saiyan dangles in the air, that turns her insides to ice.

It's his flawlessness. The Ice-jin is immaculate. No scars. No bruises. His scales shine, unmarred by even a single speck of dust.

"You poor, stupid monkey. I'm beginning to think you've spent your entire life waiting for this very moment." In his smile is the story of a thousand battles, and in every one he emerges unscathed. "And here you are, about to die. A failure."

She shouldn't have come. Why did she come? She should have waited. She should have listened to Krillin, followed his commands like a damn puppy. And no, it's not his fault. It's not Vegeta's fault. It's not the fault of her teachers, who were too cowed by her money and brains to give her detention, not the fault of her mother and father, who never learned to tell their darling girl, "no."

Vegeta's face is turning blue, but he still has the idiocy to waste breath by squeezing out, "Go to hell, you bastard!"

In one flick the monster throws him with such force she can barely track the trajectory with her eyes. But there's no missing the violent crash, the spray of rocks and rubble close enough to blind her.

She snaps her stinging eyes shut. Hacks out dust and the scent of scorched flesh. When she opens them Frieza is gliding slowly through the air. "Now stay down like a good boy." Closer and closer towards the Saiyan sprawled at ground zero like a cracked egg, insides oozing out.

But he'll get up. Vegeta always gets up. He hates orders just as much as she does. He hates losing even more than she does. So he'll get up and bluster about pride and fight on and on and on. She's seen him do it before, seen his bulldog tenacity that she hates, but secretly admires, because that part of him is really just a mirror of herself, and who likes to see the worst parts of themselves reflected back?

He'll get up.

He has to get up.

"Get up. Get  _up_ , Vegeta!"

If she moves fast enough, she can get to him before Frieza.  _Wait here, Bulma._  With Frieza approaching fast, revealing herself is suicide, foolishness, stupidity beyond words.

But she's not foolish. She's not stupid.

She's Bulma Briefs, and she's going to  _make_  him get up.

Bulma scrambles onto her knees. She crawls forward. One foot. Two feet. Then she's on her feet, sprinting towards his lifeless figure.

She skids to a halt, collapses onto her knees, bends over him, shakes his shoulders like fault lines colliding. "Get up! Why aren't you getting up?" Slaps his face. "Come on, Vegeta!" His eyes don't open. She glances behind her. Frieza's paused his approach, head cocked. Amused, if the twist of his jet lips is anything to go by. How many seconds does she have left? "Get up, Vegeta, you need to  _get up_!"

"I don't believe we've been introduced," Frieza calls down. "Who are you?"

Trembling, she shuts her eyes.  _Wait here, Bulma._ But she couldn't wait. She couldn't wait, and it's all her fault. Because she wanted to be here. She wanted to see this. She wanted to see Vegeta suffer, wanted to see the man who terrorized her brought to his damn knees. Wouldn't it cure her of the nightmares? The panic that seizes her whenever he's close by?

He laughed when Yamcha died.  _Laughed_. This moment should be her crowning victory, and she should be dancing over his early grave.

But she's not laughing. Or dancing. Instead her face is a stream of water. It drips off her chin, splashes onto the rivulets of red running down his face, her tears and his blood, mixing, and for the first time, she isn't afraid of him.

She's afraid for him.

"Who are you?" Frieza repeats.

She ignores him. "You always get up, right Vegeta?"

"I asked who you were. Do you dare ignore me?"

"Please, Vegeta. He's going to kill you."

Vegeta's eyes flutter open. He lifts his head, coughs out a mouthful of blood. "He was always going to kill me."

"No! There's still time."

"Go. Before he kills you too."

"Not until you get up." She digs her hands into her hair, yanking. "What about pride, huh?" She punches the ground beside his face and screams. "I thought you were the prince of all Saiyans!"

Suddenly, his eyes burst wide. She must have got through to him. But before she has time to feel relieved or scared or anything at all, Vegeta grabs her with one hand and  _throws_.

She's too shocked to scream.

She careens twenty meters, lands hard, and lifts her head up just in time to see a car-sized blast escape from Frieza's hands and Vegeta bracing himself for a hit meant for her.

This time, she screams his name.

The blast connects. The world explodes into gritty darkness. Sand and dirt choke the air. Several blind minutes go by.

And then she hears it:

"Hiya, Bulma!"

That voice.

"Watcha doin' here?"

It couldn't be...

"Not really a safe place for you, is it?"

She cracks open an eye. "Goku?"

At first, he's only a vague outline in the dust clouds. But as the debris settles the image resolves, sharper and sharper, until she sees him standing tall, shoulders back, his body shielding the prone Vegeta, a goofy grin plastered on his face. "Of course it's me, who else would it be?"

Bulma chokes out a half-sob, half-laugh. "Goku!" Vegeta's right, he is an idiot. But he's also the strongest, kindest man she knows, so maybe they'll be okay.

Maybe.

Frieza's smile remains perfectly intact. "Another monkey come to play? I must admit, I'm growing a bit tired of these games. Perhaps it's time for me to put an end –" Frieza abruptly breaks off, and for the first time since Bulma had the displeasure of seeing him, his black lips slacken, bend into a deep frown as Vegeta, little more than a smear on the ground, starts chuckling.

Scratch that, Vegeta's the real idiot.

"Something funny?" Frieza asks.

Vegeta's laugher rises, crescendos to just this side of hysteria. "It's over, Frieza!"

"Really?"

"Do you know who this is?" He points to Goku, standing there with a  _who me?_  look on his face, confused as the day he was born. "He's the legendary Super Saiyan. He's everything you've ever feared, and he'll be the one who finally defeats you." He pounds his bloody chest. "A Saiyan!"

Frieza doesn't say a word. Any trace of amusement has vanished. He floats there, motionless, not a flicker of emotion on his face, then points one, manicured finger straight at Vegeta.

Before the first crackle of energy sparks, she knows.

As Vegeta hacks out the last of his life, Bulma turns away. She can't be here. She can't watch anymore of this. She stands and hobbles off in any direction where she won't have to listen to his voice, fragile and fading, like water circling the drain, spilling out his broken confessions, the splinters of a life so shattered no one can put him back together again.

_Destroyed our planet. Killed our people. Killed my father._

_Took me._

Back at the space ship, she climbs into the cockpit and starts the ignition, eyes dry as a desert. "Where were you, Bulma?" Gohan asks.

A few days under Frieza's tyranny has all but undone her. What would a lifetime do?

She knows the answer. The unhinged, fractured answer that lies buried in a shallow grave, and all because –

"I didn't wait."

* * *

In Saiyan, the word for  _weak_  is the same as  _disgrace_.

" _Guthrah."_ Vegeta rolls the word around his tongue. " _Guthrah_." What his father would say of the fallen gladiators who performed for the court's entertainment, or what Nappa would call the members of the Frieza Force who didn't survive the first round of hazing, or what he would spit at the victims of his purges while stepping over their mangled, innumerable bodies.

Vegeta leans against an out-of-the-way tree as the Earthlings and revived Namekians mingle within the palatial grounds of Capsule Corp. Mechanical waiters pass out refreshments. One has the audacity to offer him a cup of lemonade, and is made into spare parts for its trouble. The air reeks of laughter and small talk and a grotesque amount of simpering.

_Fools_. You'd think the battle with Frieza would be a lesson in the type of monsters orbiting the cosmos, that strength is the only currency this universe understands. But no. Hot off the heels of near-extinction, they choose to throw  _garden parties_ over training or weapons research or marshaling armies. They sip their drinks and pretend their world is surrounded by bubble wrap, soft and secure, ever protected by their precious Dragon Balls and the low-class idiot.

The woman is one of the most egregious of the bunch. His eyes stray to her aquamarine head, bobbing with that obnoxious laugh, the brazen way she lives each moment as if she has a thousand more. Why don't they get it? Why can't they see how death is a shadow, always reaching, always grasping? Vegeta can't remember a time when he didn't feel the reaper's breath at his neck, and those who can die at any moment don't live in fantasies.

They live each moment like they are going to die.

The woman must have noticed his gaze, because she peels off from her coterie and approaches him with a bold, sauntering stride. "Hey, Vegeta."

"What do you want?"

She shrugs. Yes, the person who once couldn't look at him without nearly fouling herself just shrugged in his presence. "That was good thinking, the way you figured out how to get everyone back to earth.

"I was tired of listening to your stupid prattle."

"Either way, it was pretty clever."

"Then why didn't you think of it? You're always blabbing about being some kind of genius."

"Well, yeah." She flips out a hand. "But logistics was never my strong point, I'm more of an inventor, and –"

"Don't care." He pushes himself off the tree and stalks quickly off.

"Hey, where are you going?"

The rush of her chasing foosteps sounds behind him, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't answer. Truth is, he has no answer. Where is he going? He doesn't know. For most of his life, he went wherever Frieza told him to go, did whatever Frieza told him to do. But Frieza is dead now. The axis around which his life revolved has atomized, become one with the stars and ancient things.

But not everything died with him. The anger survived, that old hatred which fuels his every step, immortal flames burning deep inside with no way to be quenched. There were only two things Vegeta owned in this vast universe: his birthright, and his pride. He guarded them both with every ounce of himself, and in one breath they were stolen, snatched away when he rose out of his unmarked grave on Namek and saw what Kakarot had become, what Kakarot had attained while he had not.

If he had had the Dragon Balls at that moment, he would have wished himself back to death.

Bulma taps him on the back. "No really, where are you going?" He hadn't realized he'd stopped walking, or that she'd caught up to him. "Because you literally have nowhere to go."

No planet. No people. No purpose or pride.

Nothing and no one.

"Listen," she continues, voice a shade softer. "You saved my life back on Namek. I won't forget that. So if you wanted, you could stay here. With me."

The woman was there in the end. She must have seen it all. His weakness. His disgrace. Vegeta turns around and looks at her face. Her skin is flushed, her smile bright, and worst of all, there is no fear in her eyes.

_Guthrah._

"So what do you think, Vegeta? Where will you go?"

It's time to take it all back. Time to become  _someone_  again, and off in the distance, the spaceship gleams like polished gold in the sunlight.

"I'm going to find Kakarot."


	4. AGE 764

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Sorry for the wait. I do have quite a bit of material planned for this fic, it just won't be super fast in coming, so I hope you won't give up. I plan to keep the chapters somewhat shorter, but this one came out a bit longer. Anyway, thanks for reading and any comments/kudos are appreciated.

Another month, another hairstyle. Tonight, it's twisted into loose rolls down her scalp and freed at the nape of her neck, a shimmer of blue that just tickles her bare shoulders. Her dress, a short, low cut Versace, clings like plastic wrap around every smooth curve. No matter what angle she views herself in her 360 degree mirror, what she sees is a bombshell, the girlfriend of All-Star player Yamcha, the genius heiress to Capsule Corporation who leaves the paparazzi salivating at the mere thought of her stepping outside her fortress of a home and partaking in a night on the town.

But there is one thing she does not see:

Herself.

Hasn't seen it in a long time, if she's being honest. When did her life become such a circus act? Such a show for others to exploit? There was a time when no one knew or cared whether she was hunched in a lab, drawing schematics for the latest in supersonic air travel, or hiking forgotten trails on a life-threatening quest for ancient artifacts.

Her phone buzzes. Yamcha's already at the club, and impatient. * _Party's wild! You gotta get down here_!*

Suddenly, she's in no mood to hurry. Feeling thirsty, and far too sober, she meanders to the liquor cupboard in the lounge and pours herself a finger of whisky. She gives the rich, brown liquid a little swirl in the cut crystal tumbler, worth more than the average middle class home, downs it all in one gulp, and then pours another.

Things were supposed to be different once he was wished back. "A fresh start," they agreed, never mentioning why a fresh start was necessary, that by the time Yamcha had died, their relationship had become hard and stale.

And to be fair, things started off well. She can still feel the warmth of Yamcha's skin as she flung her arms around him after he was wished back, the way it filled her up and spread down every limb, the grin that wouldn't leave her face. They spent the next three days in bed, and for awhile they were seventeen years old again.

But the daily life happened. They saw less and less of each other, and when they did it was dominated by arguments and ambivalence. Namek had changed them. But instead of growing closer, these days they drift farther and farther apart, two plants following the light of different suns.

"What I wouldn't give for a little…." A little what? Fun? Security?Romance? Adventure? Words flit through her brain, but none of them quite fit into the shape of the hole that's been living inside her since Namek, the first time she truly, honestly, without a doubt thought she was going to die.

Correction:  _permanently_  die.

The whisky slides down like oil. Her throat is on fire. A dim haze descends over her senses, bending her thoughts, giving them new angles. Maybe she's got it all wrong, and Namek wasn't the start of her troubles. Maybe the hollowness eating her from the inside out has been there much longer, and it took planet-wide destruction to make her wake up and take notice.

Maybe the reason she no longer recognizes herself is because she no longer knows who she is.

Her legs go a bit wobbly. She needs to sit. The dress requires that she ease down onto the sofa in increments, and once settled she lies back against the cushions, an arm behind her head, the lights in the room mercifully shut off. But the television glows as it idles in the background, muted, the closed caption informing her of a string of mini-earthquakes that have shaken the coast and befuddled the geologists. The brightness stings her eyes, but searching for the remote requires too much coordination and effort.

Time blurs. She enters that indistinct stage between dozing and waking up, cycling through both as her thoughts skid haphazardly between unfinished projects and the dark well of thoughts that have started to drown her.

Her phone buzzes again and she startles to full consciousness, almost throws it across the room. "Give it a rest Yamacha!"

But when she checks her screen, it's not the picture of her boyfriend wearing shades, a baseball cap, and a magazine-cover smile. She swipes to answer and puts the phone to her ear. "Krillin?"

"Yeah, hey, sorry to bother you, especially on a Friday night, and I know you probably have plans and I hate to interrupt, but –"

"Just get it out," she cuts. She's used to this, the occasional request or demand on her time from the superhuman squad, who still haven't learned how to function like humans.  _Could I borrow that one_   _capsule….I just need a car for a few….seriously Bulma, this is the last time I'll ask for the dragon radar!_

But Krillin asks for nothing, says nothing at all, and the pause is generous enough to make her curious and worried all at once. "Krillin? What is it?" Her body tenses. Her mind propels to the worst case scenario, and she's all but ready to hunt down the dragon radar when Krillin says it:

"It's Vegeta."

It's not a name she expected to hear anytime soon, if ever again. And her fear probably shouldn't deflate as rapidly as it did. And she'd rather not think about the little worm of excitement wiggling through her chest. "What about him?" she says, cool as back-of-the-freezer ice cream. "Last I heard, that asshole was still knocking around in space."

"Actually, he landed back on earth weeks ago. He's been lying low on a small, uninhabited island off the coast."

"You're kidding." What she wouldn't give for ki-sensing. But she's a genius inventor, and there has to be some kind of workaround. How hard would it be to implant micro-trackers under their skins without them knowing? Bulma's already drawing schematics on a used napkin as she replies, "Okay. But I'm not sure why that concerns me."

"The thing is, he's not really lying low anymore."

Her brow creases. What was he driving at? But a few moments later everything clicks. She stands, walks to the tv, and manually raises the volume.

– _over three dozen people have been evacuated, with more expected –_

She rubs her temples. "Please tell me this doesn't have anything to do with the earthquakes?"

Another lengthy pause. "Goodbye Bulma."

The line goes dead. That bastard's actually had the gall to dump this in her lamp and then hang up. Because clearly this is Bulma's responsibility. Of course. Why shouldn't she, the frail human, the weakest of the group by far, be the one to keep the psychotic alien under control?

She stands up and begins rummaging through her purse. "I offered him a home," she mutters. "My part should be done." Keys located, she heads outside. "They fight, they win, and then they leave me to clean up the damn mess!"

The honest part of her brain reminds her that she always wanted Vegeta to return, had even prepared for it. But she ignores it to listen to her her stilettos echo across the cold cement of the hangar, like two swords fencing.

Once buckled into the pilot's chair, she kicks off her heels and wiggles the feeling back into her toes, her feet more comfortable than they've been all day. Mid-flight, she pulls the top down – because why the hell not? – and the wind blows her two hundred dollar coiffure to smithereens.

But she keeps the dress. After all, she's still Bulma Briefs, and in her experience in dealing with volatile men, it never hurts to look fantastic.

* * *

He senses her approach long before her helicar lands in a stretch of meadow and she huffs her way up to the crest of the hill to stand at his back.

"So you decided to come back to this mudball of a planet. I'm almost flattered."

Her words are pointed. Like a child poking a beehive. She clearly expects him to start buzzing, but then she's used to the easy fish, isn't she? The ones who always go for the cheapest bait. Vegeta may not be famous for his even temper, but in Frieza's service one learns early on how to keep their mouth shut.

After a beat of silence, she tries a different tack. "Look at you, sitting on that boulder all by yourself like some kind of medieval gargoyle." Her voice is light, sweet, flower petals wafting on a breeze. "I would have never pegged you for a brooder, but the way you stare up at the sky, it's….almost poetic."

What's poetic is how she can slip in and out of personas as easily as taking off a jacket, putting on a new pair of shoes. But problem solving is her stock-in-trade. She probably tinkers with the people in her life as much as her machines, always searching for the perfect code, the perfect circuit, the perfect algorithm to give her the result she wants.

"Are you going to say anything?" Now her voice verges on desperate. A twang of damsel-in-distress. "Please Vegeta, it's cold and a little creepy out here. Who knows what's on this island. The least you could do is turn around and look at me." Too bad he's never been the hero, and he never will.

Despite himself, the barest hint of a smile creeps into his mouth. She's fun to play with, and a few more minutes ought to do it.

"Look asshole, I flew  _two hours_  to get here, and I am _not_ leaving without a damn  _conversation_!"

_There she is._

"And I'm not talking until I get something to eat," he says.

"Wonderful! Great! Fly us down to my helicar and I can get us to a restaurant in thirty minutes."

"I would never debase myself by stepping into that tin can."

"Then  _you_  can fly us –"

"And I don't eat out of the palms of strangers."

"What is that? Some kind of a Saiyan proverb?" She sighs. "Let me guess, you're too proud to go begging."

"I'm too smart to get poisoned." He stands. "I'm hunting."

"Hunting?  _Hunting_? This island is a  _preservation_  site. Do you know what that means? It means hunting isn't allowed, and even if it was allowed, why would you go through all the trouble when I can literally get you mountains of food in thirty minutes or less, and –"

She stops, palpably fuming. Vegeta's smile broadens. There's something oddly satisfying about disappointing people. When you live your life in another's service, it's often the only power you have. He begins a slow countdown in his head –  _ten, nine_ – something he used to do with Zarbon or Dodoria –  _eight, seven_ – after willfully misconstruing yet another order –  _six, five_ – the dwindling silence before they decide the stupid monkey isn't worth the trouble –  _four, three_ – and they'd give up and storm away –  _two_ ,  _one, zero_.

_Wait for it..._

"You know what?" she clips, in a decidedly "not-giving-up" tone.

"Nevermind. Let's do this!"

"What?" He's so shocked he turns around and looks at her.

Big mistake.

Gone are the outrageous outfits and sculpted hairstyles. Tonight, she's poured into a wisp of a dress that leaves nothing to the imagination, and glitters like moonlight on the sea. With every movement, whether a broad gesture or a minuscule shift in balance, the dress shimmers and she transforms into something else entirely, a continuous wave of fluid motion, and all of it topped by the wild abandon of her hair.

In his mind, she'll always and forever be 'that woman.' But for the first time he's known her he thinks of her as that  _woman_.

"You want to hunt, let's hunt." She lifts one shoulder, casual-like, as if hunting in evening wear with homicidal aliens is a regular past time for her. But the little tremors in her body give her away. Her insides must be thrumming, and there's no way she hasn't noticed how his eyes move unabashedly up and down her body, canvassing, getting the lay of the new terrain. "Don't let the get up fool you. I was shooting little kids by the time I was sixteen."

His eyes snap back to her face. "I'd purged three systems by the time I was sixteen."

"Hey, let's not get into some kind of dick measuring contest, 'cause I'm pretty sure you'll win." She chuckles.

Vegeta's the farthest from amused. "Do you…" He cocks his head, confused. His stare is so intense he may as well be trying to see through her. "I thought you were…"

Perhaps he doesn't understand human anatomy as much as he thought.

She starts laughing. At him. Laughing.

_Laughing_.

His eyes narrow. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing. It's just a little tragic how Saiyan sex education has clearly failed its youth. Now let's go get dinner!"

"I know what sex is," he calls. But she's already tromping away, hips swaying, a pair of uncomfortable looking shoes slung over her shoulder, and he should probably feel much more angry than he does. "Bitch."

* * *

Due to rigorous conservation efforts, the island is lush with a variety of fauna: deer, goats, wild boar, and the highly endangered Red-paw Bear.

"There." Vegeta points at the hulking beast wading in a stream, a fish clamped in its mouth. "That's the one."

"I told you there were only twenty-three of those left on the planet."

"And now there'll be twenty-two."

Bulma pauses. "I've done worse things."

They'd tracked the bear through a mile of unchecked foliage, so thick in some parts he was forced to blast it away, leaving a charred, smoldering trail in their wake.

"So much for the hard working folks at EnviroCare," Bulma sighs. "I'll have to remember to write out a generous cheque in the morning."

"Do you always absolve your guilt by throwing money at things?"

"Hey, better than feeling no guilt at all." Her bare feet are bleeding, her arms criss-crossed in silk-thin scratches. Her skin shines with a film of sweat and excitement. It's clear she's done this sort of thing before, but not in a long while.

What made her stop?

He holds out an arm. "Stay here. I'll be back with the kill."

One precisely aimed ki-blast finishes the work. He hoists the carcass over his shoulder and returns to find a gleeful grin on her face, and a small animal impaled upon the heel of her ridiculous shoe. "Check me out! I finally found a use for these things!"

He grabs the shoe and examines it. "I assumed they were simply idiotic footwear worn by the less intelligent of your species." He wouldn't go so far as to say he's impressed. But as he hands back the shoe and looks her over her – disheveled, dirty, and without any trace of the fear that permeated her back on Namek – he has to admit she has a certain amount of grit. "But it's clear they are intended to double as weapons."

"Obviously. And as an added bonus, they make my legs look amazing." She extends a slim, well-shaped leg, turning it about and wiggling her toes.

"I wouldn't know."

"Riiight."

He leads her back to his camp, a little clearing complete with a fire pit and a boulder against which he sleeps, and throws the bear down.

"Gather some firewood," he orders, and starts in on the butchering, bits of fur and bone tossed over his shoulder and into the dark jaws of the forest.

"You gotta be kidding me." She eases down to the ground and rubs her mangled feet. Without any momentum, the exhaustion has caught up with her and seeps into her expression, her movements. The dress will need to be thrown out. "I don't think I can move another muscle. Can't you just fry it in your hands?"

"It tastes better over a fire."

"Huh. I never would have guessed." Then she lays down, her face to the stars. "Why'd you come back, anyway?"

Vegeta frowns.  _Why_. The humans are so obsessed with the world. They believe there must be a reason for everything – every tragedy, every triumph. They look up at the stars, and what do they see? A universe without end, and all the limitless possibilities it inspires.

But black is not the color of promise. Vegeta's lived his life in the void long enough to know that. When he's up there, the darkness wraps around him as though he's sealed in a jar, the little pinprick stars like innumerable air holes, a feeling of being trapped and free all at once.

When he looks up at the stars, all he sees is another dead end.

And she wants to know  _why_.

"I couldn't find Kakarot." It's not a lie, exactly. It's half an answer to an asinine question, and more than she deserves. "But his mate and brat are on this planet, so he's bound to come here eventually."

He stalks off and gathers the firewood himself, and in a few minutes, huge steaks of bear meat are sizzling over the open flames, luscious fumes of roasted meat pervading the camp.

He's starving, and eats like it.

"You eat like Goku."

Her words snap him out of his food trance. She's watching him with wide eyes, a dash of amusement, and if he's not mistaken a hint of mild disgust. "I eat like a Saiyan," he clips.

She shrugs. "Goku's the only Saiyan I've known till you guys showed up. I never knew it was a species thing." She nibbles on a small piece of meat. "In case you're wondering, there's plenty of food at capsule corp."

"I wasn't."

"I mean, if food isn't your thing, I do have other things to offer."

He freezes, mid-chew. She's back to lounging, her body stretched across the ground in a casual, almost inviting repose, in a dress that's close to tatters. "I'm not interested in that."

She laughs. "I'm talking about an  _invention_ , you pervert." Now she has his interest. "A gravity chamber."

Now she  _really_  has his interest, and the woman must know it too, staring at him with that raised eyebrow and insufferable smirk. "Isn't that what Kakarot used to get so strong?"

"The one and the same." There's something almost Saiyan in the way she grins, a mixture of superiority and recklessness. "Only this one's not on a spaceship. It's at Capsule Corp."

"You built one."

"Yep!"

"For me."

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Her eyes scramble in every direction, searching for a way out. "I…"

In a flash, Vegeta's on her, pulling her up from the ground. Her holds her arms tightly and his words are low and hot in her face. "What is it you want?"

"What?"

"I don't trust people who ask for nothing in return. There's always strings attached, so what is it you want from me?"

"Nothing, I –" Her heart rate increases, breath rapid, eyes dilating. He's seen it all before. He's seen her so many times like this, in the grip of fear, within his grip. Her flesh and bones are nothing more than thin reeds in his hands. How easy it would be to break them, crush them, make her beg for mercy for even daring to think that she could –

But then she closes her eyes. Closes her mouth. Breathes deeply, in and out, in and out.

When she opens her eyes again, the fear has evaporated, and her voice does not quaver. "Do you remember our last conversation? Do you remember what I told you?"

_You saved my life, and I'll never forget that._

His grip loosens. He looks away. "No."

A hand on his face. Hers. Warm and unthreatening.

No one's ever touched him like this before.

She moves his face gently back to meet hers. "You're the one who gave me something, remember? And maybe I just want to return the favor."

Could it be that simple? An amicable transaction between two parties?

_Fight for me, and free your people._ Frieza had promised a fair exchange as well. And what did he get out of the bargain? Bondage, and pain. Years and years and years of it, and even now, Frieza's death has become just another kind of prison, locked him into a life of confusion and meaninglessness.

But there's still that hope, dangling. Defeating Kakarot is his universe without end. The one horizon he can't cross, and if the gravity chamber is his only chance at the impossible, at giving strength and purpose and pride back into his life, then he needs to take it.

He releases her. "Fine."

Her jaw drops. "What?"

"It's obvious you won't leave me alone until I agree to live in your garbage heap of a home –"

"You mean my state of the art, five-star luxury mansion?" she fires.

A beat goes by. "Are you finished?" She crosses her arms with a shrug. "As I was saying," he continues, "if I'm to have no peace until I agree, then I agree. I'll stay in residence at Capsule Corp until Goku returns, and we can resume our battle."

Relief floods her face. She laughs, sags, staggers a bit. He could knock her over with a feather. "And here I was thinking you were gonna kill me to save yourself the trouble!"

"I still might."

He walks two steps backwards and flies off without a word.


End file.
